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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542669">thoughts after smoke and ashes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Confused_Kitten/pseuds/A_Confused_Kitten'>A_Confused_Kitten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Musketeers (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>D'irtagnan, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e02 Sleight of Hand, Hurt d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Protective Aramis | René d'Herblay, Protective Athos | Comte de la Fère, Protective Musketeers, Protective Porthos du Vallon, They're gay your honor, Trauma, could be canon compliant, could be canon divergent, d'artagnan eats dirt? d'irtagnan, this starts angsty but gets soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:02:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Confused_Kitten/pseuds/A_Confused_Kitten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vadim is dead.</p><p>"It should have worked," the man had said,  and d'Artagnan knows it's true, because it nearly did. He's alive because a mad man wanted to see how far he could take his game, a hand wrapped around his heart without d'Artagnan even knowing. And as the adrenaline fades, all his doubts start to whisper.</p><p>~~</p><p>Or, in which, d'Artagnan doesn't simply walk up almost being blown to bits, and that's perfectly fine, but Musketeers take care of their own.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>thoughts after smoke and ashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vadim is dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are a mantra inside his head, repeating over and over, until they are all he knows. He doesn’t notice the blood on his sword, nor the singed leather of his jacket, can’t focus on the way his wrists throb and every breath burns and-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It should have worked," the man had said,  and d'Artagnan knows it's true, because it nearly</span>
  <em>
    <span> did. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He's alive because a mad man wanted to see how far he could take his game, a hand wrapped around his heart without d'Artagnan even knowing. And as the adrenaline fades, all his doubts start to whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fear of being discovered, the panic of waking up, tied down, spiraling because if he couldn't even escape this, then what good was he to the others? His mind is stuck in that place, stuck in that panic when it shouldn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>matter </span>
  </em>
  <span>anymore because Vadim is</span>
  <em>
    <span> dead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"d'Artagnan?" A voice calls, and d'Artagnan blinks. "d'Artagnan, are you injured somewhere?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What's the right answer to that? His wrists still burn from escaping and his head still aches where he'd been struck and every breathe feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>but-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>D'Artagnan can't seem to get the answer out. The words are caught in his throat, and as the adrenaline fades, the pain creeps up on him and he hates himself for being so </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The fight is over, the enemy gone, killed by d'Artagnan's own blade. There's no reason he should feel like this, feel so useless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Athos is still watching him, waiting for an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But d’Artagnan doesn’t have one to give, and all he can do is stare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's something wrong with their Gascon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s in the way he’s barely moving, practically frozen, when the last time they’d met, he hadn’t been still for even a moment. It’s because he’s not reacting to anything at all, as though he’s not hearing a word they say, not even responding when Athos rests a hand on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Athos would be the first to admit that, while he is good at reading people, he is not one for giving comfort. He can read between the lines, yes, and he’s spent enough time in upper class society to know how to speak respectfully, and to know when emotions are bleeding through a mask, but comfort is something else entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he’s never been one to let someone dwell in that uncomfortable place, the one between reality and the mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’Artagnan?” Athos asks, keeping his voice soft, while tightening his loose grip on the other’s shoulder. But d’Artagnan only blinks, looking up at him rather owlishly. “D’Artagnan, are you injured somewhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Athos may not have Aramis’ experience with medicine, but he knows what exhaustion looks like, and he knows what it feels like to be overwhelmed. It’s swaying back and forth, too tired to stand still. It’s that thousand yard stare, because the mind is a powerful thing, and its whispers are deafening. And, most of all, it’s how a person looks completely and utterly lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Thos?” His friend slurs, blinking slowly. “I think somethin’s wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bites back a swear. There’s something startlingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>about d’Artagnan’s tone, and some part of Athos wonders when he’d grown to consider him one of his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That certainly settles it. Carefully, as not to startle their young friend, he steps behind d'Artagnan, pulling his shoulders against his chest. Athos doesn’t think about how malleable he is, tries to ignore how d’Artagnan trembles as Athos lowers them both to the ground. Once there, he simply guides d’Artagnan’s head against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Aramis!” Athos calls, mindful of his volume. Judging on the bloodied cut on d’Artagnan’s temple and the slur of his words, the younger man has a concussion, and shouting rarely helps with those.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Athos knows from experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aramis is kneeling by his side in a moment, Porthos following close behind. Their marksman frowns, and his eyes fill with concern as he conducts that familiar inspection. Head first, to check for any obvious concussions, and then on to the chest, to make sure there aren’t any immediate problems breathing, and finally, checking for anything that still bleeds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’Artagnan, my friend,” Aramis says, his voice low, “I need you to tell me what exactly is hurting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ribs,” their Gascon mumbles, the words sounding terribly forced.  “Throat ‘n’ my wrists, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And well, as much as Athos hates it when one of his people is injured, even more so when there are multiple wounds, there are three things hurting and three people ready to provide comfort. The three of them exchange a glance, and after knowing each other for years, the conversation that follows is silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aramis frowns, dark eyes filled with concern. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We need to move,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his expression says, and Athos has a feeling he may be right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Porthos shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, but Athos knows better than that. They all do. He runs his fingers over d’Artagnan’s knuckles, and Athos isn’t sure who he’s trying to comfort. Everything about him is screaming, crying </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re not leaving him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Athos thinks, the smallest of smiles on his face, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not a soul on earth could convince the three of us to leave our fourth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll take him to my home,” Athos decides, ignoring the sharp looks he’s given. “It’s the closest place by far, and both of you are familiar with where I keep everything. And, since none of us are leaving our youngest’s side, there’s more than enough room to fit four comfortably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes sense to me,” Porthos says, and then he’s rising to his feet. “Give me the keys, and I can get a space ready for ‘Mis, while you two make sure the pup gets there in one piece.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>D’Artagnan shoots them all a glare, albeit a weak one. “I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, you know. ‘m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Athos is already holding out the keys, and Porthos is out of sight within moments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean it," d'Artagnan repeats, and Athos doesn't like the ways he's practically choking on his words. "'m fine, 'Thos."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately for d'Artagnan, his reputation for understating his injuries had not, in fact, gone unnoticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I grab one side and you get the other?” Aramis asks, as though he doesn’t already know the answer. Because while the three of them weren’t as prone to causing trouble as d’Artagnan is, it’d be a miracle if they </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>gotten into their fair share of trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let’s just say, they hadn’t always been considered among the Musketeers’ best, and they had grown quite familiar with dragging themselves to the infirmary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling d’Artagnan’s arm over his shoulder, Athos wraps his arm around back, and on the other side of him, Aramis does the same. It’s not hard to get a firm hold on their friend, and it’s not hard to rise to their feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a brief moment, Athos is glad that d’Artagnan isn’t protesting. Glad that he was so eerily still, because at least he wasn’t hurting himself further, aggravating the unseen wounds that never should’ve happened in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this is d’Artagnan. This is d’Artagnan, who’s faced every challenge thrown his way with a brilliant grin, because he loves the thrill and adventure of it. D’Artagnan, who’d dived right into a fight that wasn’t his own, to prove a man innocent, only hours after meeting them. D’Artagnan isn’t meant for stillness or for quiet, and his lack of protest tells wonders of how much he trusts them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did we ever tell you how the three of us met?” Aramis says, once they’ve started walking. His dark eyes are bright and playful, and Athos knows that look like he knows the back of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever the following story may be, it couldn’t be from the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, d’Artagnan’s dazed expression lightens at Aramis’ inquiry, and really, how was he supposed to ruin that?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes around twenty minutes for Athos and Aramis to arrive at the house, d’Artagnan practically limp in their arms. His olive skin is pale, and Porthos doesn’t know whether he passed out, or if he’s merely sleeping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes another ten minutes to get their Gascon settled down, because asleep or awake, their d’Artagnan is attached to Athos’ hip, and it doesn’t take much for Porthos to understand why. He’s never been trained for something like this, never been prepared for the risks that come with it, and when it comes down to it, Athos is someone he knows he can trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, a young man passed out in bed, his head resting in another man’s lap, while the other ran gentle fingers through his hair, is far from what’s considered normal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Porthos grins, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when have the three of us done anthin’ normal.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time d’Artagnan wakes up, almost an hour has passed since Porthos arrived at the house. He comes to with a quiet groan, his doe eyes slowly blinking open. Porthos doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, as d’Artagnan realizes </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>where he is. His head in Athos’ lap, while Aramis carefully binds his wrists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Porthos thinks he’s going to pull away. Almost anyone else would, without even a moment’s hesitation. Because three men aren’t supposed to be as close as they are, aren’t supposed to be as intimate. But the question only lingers for a moment, before he relaxes fully, going as far as to tip his head back, exposing the black and blue ring around his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, are you goin’ to tell us what happened, pup, or are we goin’ to have to start guessin’?” Porthos asks, crossing his arms. Athos and Aramis pause, their hesitation gone before it even has a chance to settle in, but Porthos knows them. They want the answers just as much he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>D’Artagnan is silent, and Porthos doesn’t comment on the way his body trembles. All of them have faced a moment like this, their first encounter where death whispered in their ear. Porthos had found his way to the highest part of the Court, staying there until Flea had come for him, hours later. Aramis had been frozen when they’d first met, his mind caught in an endless trap of </span>
  <em>
    <span>they’re dead, dead, dead, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his eyes far too blank. And Athos, well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone knows Athos drinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was playing me,” d’Artagnan says, quietly, doubtfully. “I should’ve known better than to think he trusted me. He caught me in front of all of his people, and the next thing I knew, I was tied down to barrels of gunpowder, and Vadim was lighting the fuse.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And d’Artagnan laughs. Laughs as those he hadn’t almost died a terrible death, as though he never was at risk of getting blown to pieces, while the world still thought him a lowly criminal. Porthos wants to swear at the unfairness of it all, but he keeps quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When d’Artagnan speaks again, his words are barely a whisper. “I thought I was going to die down there. I think I nearly did.” He raises his wrist, the one Aramis isn’t holding in a featherlight grasp. “I almost couldn’t cut the rope and I almost-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if it weren’t for d’Artagnan’s vulnerable expression, and to a lesser extent, his injuries, Porthos would have been half way out the door by now, on his way to slit the throats of the men who’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>to hurt one of their own. And he wants to, he certainly does, but that’s not what their young friend needs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Porthos takes a deep breath, and takes d’Artagnan’s hand in his own, his fingers hovering over the pulse. Because yes, their friend survived and made it back to them, but he’s dearly in need of comfort, and Porthos is happy to provide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Athos leans forward, pressing a light kiss to d’Artagnan’s hair, and the resulting smile is soft and warm. “You’re alright, now, d’Artagnan. You understand that, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then know that you are safe here, and that all three of us have your back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long after that for them all to fall into a comfortable sleep, content to find peace in each other's company.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aramis has always been a light sleeper. Well, that wasn’t the case when he was young, but in the wake of Savoy… it’s not hard to admit that every night after that, Aramis had woken at even the slightest sound, and that had never gone away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Aramis really doesn’t feel like moving, because somehow, he’d ended up curled along Athos’ side, almost between him and d’Artagnan, and it is quite comfortable, but if he’s awake, then he might as well see who else is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, he has a safe bet to who it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“d’Artagnan?” Aramis asks, keeping his voice soft. Nights like this, the quiet ones where they can truly relax with one another without the threat of a mission over their head, are rare. And the rarer something is, the more precious it becomes, and there’s nothing that Aramis treasures more. “d’Artagnan, are you awake?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of answering, d’Artagnan carefully slides over, until he’s lying by Aramis’ side, his hand in his own. It’s a tight fit, the four of them lying side by side on a bed made for two, but Aramis can hardly bring himself to mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We care about you, you know that, yes?” He asks, and he feels the responding nod rather than sees it. “Athos and Porthos don’t always show it, or at least not obviously, but they do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you?” D’Artagnan says, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifts his head, a brilliant smile on his face and a soft look in those dark eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at other people, and yet, I’ve never seen you quite the way you act with them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aramis can’t help but smile. “I admire the beauty I find in other people, yes, but I’ve never met anyone quite like my Athos and Porthos. That is,” his smile grows, “until you became one of us. You’re very special to all of us, my love, and if you’re willing to put up with all of us, I couldn’t think of a person I’d rather have with us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile sneaks across d’Artagnan’s face, and the man has never looked so beautiful as he does now, basking in the moonlight, dark eyes shining brilliantly. “You know, I think I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>working name: sleight of hand but with Trauma ✨</p><p>So! First fic of the year, and it's angst. Because what else would I be writin, the day after joinin' a fandom. Anyways, this was enabled by Eli and Chaos on discord, so thank them for your dose of angst and trauma. For anyone who's wantin ta yell with me, whether it's about this fic or a different fandom entirely, take my discord!</p><p>Cheshire #1847</p></blockquote></div></div>
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